Harry Styles: The truth about my life
by WinterThunderStorm
Summary: Harry Styles speaks up about his awful childhood.. Harry's POV. Larry near the end but mainly focused on Harry.. This is not real and I really hope Harry hasn't been through anything like any part of this one shot. I'm also very sorry to anyone who has. I love you all. Warnings: Abuse, rape, depression, self harm, suicidal thought, failed suicide attempts


_Harry Styles: The truth about my life._

I don't even really remember when it 'started', if you want to say that. It was something that I thought was normal when I was younger. As I grew up I learnt that it wasn't, but at 2 or 3 I remember thinking everyone's dad's hit them, you know? I was 6 when I really realised that it wasn't normal. Wasn't right. My best friend came round after school one day. His name is Liam. Well, that's not true. It's William and everyone calls him Will but I never liked Will and Liam just kind of stuck. We went up to my room. Normally, if I was alone, _he'd_ come up with me. Hurt me. But he never and that confused me. It was routine. It always happened. Why was Liam being there making it different? Why he acting so sweet? Like he cared about me? He didn't normally. That night he came into my room at 2 in the morning. Shook me awake, then punched me in the face. Told me if I even told anyone he'd kill me. And he meant it. Even at 6 I knew that.

So I never did.

I never even told anyone at 8 when he came into my room that Saturday around midday and told me he 'wanted to have some fun.' Mum and Gemma weren't in; they'd gone shopping. Wouldn't be back for hours, he told me. And he was right. They weren't back for hours. They weren't back in time to see him rape me. They weren't there to see him make me cum for him. They didn't stop him cuming all over me. They didn't see him pull up his jeans and leave me, lying there on him and my mum's double bed, crying my heart out. They didn't see me stumble into the shower to get rid of all the evidence. Stupid, I know. I should have called the police, but I never. I was 8 and he'd told me not to. Said I couldn't tell anyone. I didn't want to die. Not then anyway. Oh and they certainly didn't see my cry my heart out again in my room after getting dressed. Because I knew it was rape. Even then, when I was that young, I knew that wasn't normal. Dads didn't do that to their children.

It carried on like that for years. Him raping me. Me crying myself to sleep every night. No one knowing. I started cutting myself when I was 10 years old. It helped a little. Took the pain away for at least a couple of seconds. I was 14 when I finally told someone. My mother and him had divorced when I was 10 but that didn't stop him coming round to see me and Gemma. Didn't stop him asking us to stay round his. My mum always agreed, no matter how much I protested. 'He's your father. You have to.' That's what she told me. Which is fair enough in normal circumstances, but he was hurting me.

Anyway, I was 14. My mum and her husband had gone away for the weekend, leaving my sister in charge of me. My sister was secretly staying with her friends, leaving me on my own, so they could go out to this party. She _was_ 16. Liam had a key to my house. I'd forgotten this. He'd worked out I was depressed. Never quite knew why but he knew I was. He'd seen the bruises on my skin. But then he'd also seen the self-inflicted cuts on my wrists and thighs. He thought they were the same thing. They weren't. I'd been planning this for months. Ever since I found out mum and Robin were going away. Nothing was going to stop me. I remember walking into the bathroom, wrists itching as I gripped the blade tightly in between my fingers. I pulled the three full boxes of paracetamol down from the shelf and swallowed all of them as quickly as I could with a couple of glasses of water before I sliced down the veins in both of my arms and my throat. None of them particularly deep but the cuts on my wrist deeper than the one on my throat. I was just slipping away when I heard the bathroom door slam open. I'd been ignoring calls from everyone and obviously Liam had worked it out. I heard a gasp and saw a blur of paramedics and that's the last thing I can remember.

I woke up in hospital a week later with my mum, step dad and sister by my side. They told me Liam had called them after the ambulance had taken me away. Told me he was in the toilet. Refused to leave. He came back into the room a couple of minutes later. Cried when he saw I was awake, throwing himself at me carefully, thankful I was alive. I wasn't. I wanted to die. Everyone kept asking me why I did it. I couldn't tell them. I couldn't let them know how fucked up I was. How much the man who created me had ruined me. But then Liam muttered those same words everyone else was saying and it was suddenly like I had no choice. He was my best friend. He'd find out no matter what. So I laid there and cried. And cried. And cried. I didn't want to say it. But I did. I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't keep it to myself.

They all had different reactions. My step dad swore and 'refused to let the twat anywhere near me ever again.' My mum cried and apologised over and over. Gemma cried, not saying a word but I could see the hatred and betrayal for him in her eyes and Liam just kept repeating the words 'you're so strong.' I wasn't. I still don't really think I am now.

It was about a week later that I got let out of hospital. We were sat in my living room when my step dad suggested rehab. I agreed. I didn't feel I had a choice. It was my last option. All the others had failed. Even dying.

I was in rehab for 3 months. Admitted to 'deal with past abuse (sexual, physical and emotional), depression, suicidal thoughts and self-harm.' That's what it said on my report. Nothing really changed over those 3 months. I mean, I suppose it did. I stopped cutting as much. It went from multiple times a day to about once a week but I still wanted to die. More than anything.

I was almost 15 by this time. It was early December that I was released. My birthday is in February. I suppose that year just kind of passed. I tried to overdose quite a few times by nothing serious. Nothing that needed hospitalization. Me and Liam were closer than before. He saved my life, I suppose we would be. He'd seen me in my most vulnerable state, know what I mean?

Just after I turned 16 I auditioned for The X Factor. It was amazing but it wasn't enough to take away the pain. I got through and I was happy, yes, but it wasn't 'real' happiness. It didn't last. I was devastated when they didn't call out my name at the end of boot camp. Ran to a toilet and sliced my thigh to pieces. I'd never really seen it bleed like that before. I wanted to cut my wrist. It itched so badly but I couldn't. I'd had shit loads of makeup put on them both to cover the scars I had from both self-harming and from when I tried to kill myself two years ago. They'd covered the scar on my throat too. When I came out I was told they were looking for me. I remember being led up onto the stage and standing with those other 4 boys, one of which I'd met in a toilet (I just remember not being able to think about anything other than how gorgeous he was), another I'd met briefly in the hallway (he was Irish and laughed a lot. I was jealous of him. He was so happy without even having to try), and the other two I'd seen around but never really spoken too. We were put into a band and put through to the next stage of the competition and it was incredible and the boy from the toilet, whose name I'd learnt was Louis, jumped into my arms, which I was perfectly fine with because he was hot. Oh that's another thing; I was always kind of into boys as well as girls. My family had worked it out when I was young just from the way I talked about them. Boys, I mean. I'd never out right told anyone I was bisexual but I'd never really felt the need to. It was talked about like it was so normal in my house and I'd introduced boys as 'my boyfriend' before so I never really felt it was an issue.

Anyway, life carried on during X Factor. It was an amazing experience, it really was, but it didn't stop the depression. I was still sad. Still cutting. Still suicidal. Niall (the happy Irish one) noticed my cuts first. It was around week 5 of the live shows and up until that point I'd always made sure I'd changed in the bathroom or I'd turn my back to them or whatever. They all thought it was normal. We were eating dinner, just the 5 of us and I went to reach into the middle of the table for some bread to dip in my macaroni cheese when my jumper sleeve pushed up slightly. I didn't think anything of it until Niall put down his fork and stared at me. Louis, Zayn and Liam (Payne. Not my best friend from home) all just stared at him. I remained oblivious.

'Harry, what's that?' He'd asked gently. I looked up confused as I pulled my hand back, my sleeve falling back into place as well, and set my bread on the side of my plate. 'On your wrist?' He asked. I looked down at it, panic suddenly filling my mind. I stayed silent. So did the boys.

'What's going on?' I heard Louis ask softly, care soaking his words and that's when it all came out. I sat there at that circular dining table and told 4 boys I'd known for less than my stay in rehab all of my deepest darkest secrets, tears coming and all.

They all reacted different as well. Well they all cried but apart from that they were all different. Niall had the same reaction as my step dad and became incredibly protective, Liam told me over and over again how proud he was of me for trying to get help and for still being here, Zayn stood up and walked away unable to deal with it, although he sat me down and had a full conversation with me about it the next day, telling me how amazing I was and how I didn't deserve anything and Louis smiled sympathetically before hugging me tight and telling me he was going to help me. That's all he said that night but 2 weeks later he sat me down, gave me a thick brochure with loads of houses all over the country in it and told me we were moving in together when X Factor was over.

We came third and that night I refused to eat dinner and instead sat up in our shared room sobbing and cutting my wrist apart. Louis walked in on me. I expected him to freak out to be honest, but he never.

'Oh Haz. Darling.' He'd muttered sympathetically, clearly feeling how upset I was, before grabbing the room's first aid kit and falling to his knees beside me on the floor. He moved his hand out slowly to take the blade off of me as I cried and gripped tighter but he won. I knew he would. He fixed me up and cleaned the blade before softly asking me where I kept it. I was shocked; I thought he was going to take it away. Go for that approach, you know? But he never. He gave it back to me, watching carefully as I took the back of my phone apart and slipped it under the tape on the inside of the case before putting it back together. He took my phone off me and threw it up onto my top bunk, then pulled me down onto his single bed with him and whispered comforting things into my ear as I cried myself to sleep on his chest.

He kept his promise about living together. We agreed on a nice flat in London and moved into it a month later. He was amazing. He supported me. Hugged me, talked to me or just sat with me when I needed it. Let me sneak into his room, which quickly became our room, when I couldn't sleep at night. Fixed up my wrist or thigh or where ever I'd cut when I was too upset to do anything about it. He dealt with my nightmares, screaming and lashing out. He'd hide pills and anything that I could try to kill myself with away from me. He was just amazing. He really was.

It was hard and took about a year but I eventually became comfortable enough in front of him, when we were home alone, to stop using tub after tub of foundation to cover the scar on my throat and stop wearing thick jumpers to cover my wrists. I eventually managed to walk around with short sleeved, low cut tops on and not even think about it. He stared a bit at the beginning but it kind of became normal after a while. I remember one time my parents were round and I walked into the living room where they and Louis were sat with a short sleeved top on. Louis smiled and patted the sofa next to him, pulling me into a hug after I'd sat down. So naturally. My mum and step dad stared at my wrists, then at Louis, then back to my wrists in sync. They'd never really seen my scars before so I suppose it was weird for them. A couple of hours later I was making dinner when I faintly heard my mum ask Louis if he was used to seeing my scars.

'Yeah. I don't even really notice anymore to be honest. I mean, I do when there are new cuts there and things but it doesn't bother me. I like that he feels comfortable enough to not cover himself up with me.' I'd heard him answer. I smiled a real smile for the first time in a while. It seemed like things were maybe starting to get better. Possibly.

It was 2012 when everything got too much for me again. Louis and I had got together at the end of 2011 and were being forced to cover up our relationship by our management. I was having really bad nightmares every night again. I'd upped my self-harm again and was doing it pretty much every other day and I just didn't want to do it anymore. Louis wasn't around. He was always out with his beard, Eleanor. Management were trying to make us move out, into our own separate houses and I was just done. I wanted to die. I couldn't cope.

On 16th May 2012 I snapped. Louis was out with Eleanor again. The rest of the boys were at their houses or with their families or friends or whatever. I hadn't spoken to Liam (Will) in weeks either and I just didn't want it anymore. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how I felt. I just didn't know and it was a horrible feeling. I ran into the kitchen searching everywhere until I found the box of paracetamol and box of aspirin and took them into the bathroom, sitting on the floor with a small glass of water. I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent Liam (Will) a quick message saying I was sorry before I began swallowing the pills. I'd swallowed all the aspirin and half of the paracetamol when I heard the front door swing open and the sound of my boyfriend's panicked voice calling my name. I heard the boys too. He'd obviously been with them. That thought hit me and I remember suddenly feeling exceptionally left out and hurt. My gaze dropped to my lap as the bathroom door slammed open.

'Shit.' I heard Niall whisper as my fingers fumbled to get another pill out of the packet. Louis leaped at me, pushing the pills out of my hand and kicking them across the room before turning my head up to meet his. I felt sick.

'How much have you taken?' He asked quickly, fear evident in his voice. I shrugged. He dropped my head to look at the empty packets spread across the lino.

'How much?' I heard Zayn ask from the doorway, he, Liam and Niall having no idea what to do.

'Enough.' Louis replied, pushing an empty box out of the way before pulling me up onto my knees and pushing me to lean over the toilet.

'No.' I whispered gently, tears now falling down my cheeks as I braced my hands on the toilet seat.

'Yes, Harry. Make yourself sick.' Louis answered loudly, his hands shaking with panic as he held me up.

'No.' I muttered again, turning my head to look at Louis who hesitated slightly, looking back at the boys before changing his position so he was kneeling behind me with one arm wrapped around my chest to keep me steady.

'Please.' He whispered into my ear. I shook my head stubbornly. 'Okay.' He replied loudly. Well, not loudly but loud enough for the other boys to hear.

'Okay?' Liam pretty much shouted from the doorway. 'Louis, he's going to die.'

'I know. I know.' Louis muttered, bringing his right hand up to stroke my lips hesitantly.

'Good.' I whispered, broken.

'No. No, not good.' Louis replied firmly, pushing his body into my back to lock me in that position and forcing two fingers into my mouth and down my throat. He retracted them quickly as I heaved into the toilet bowl, throwing up a couple of the pills in me. I cried heavily as I pushed back against him, away from the toilet, turning my head away from his fingers. Louis sighed gently, catching himself as I pushed him and pushing his fingers back past my lips. I reacted quickly allowing him to pull his fingers back out as I missed the toilet and vomited onto the cold floor next to us. I felt Louis wince behind me before pressing a kiss to my hair, moving me back so I was leaning over the toilet and repeating the action as I collapsed into him, exhausted. From then on it's just a blur of Louis making me sick and me passing out on him to be honest.

When I woke up I was in Louis' arms, in our bed, with Zayn and Liam sat cross legged facing each other at the end of it and Niall sat on one of the dining room chairs he'd obviously brought in, next to the bed. I remember groaning at the pounding in my head and burying myself into Louis further. I remember them being all awkward and asking me why I did it. I remember sobbing and punching Louis' chest over and over again while screaming at all of them that 'I want to fucking die. Why did you save me? I don't want to be here.' Before breaking down crying into Louis' chest again. I remember Louis' phone ringing and it being my mum. He put the phone on loud speaker as she talked about how Liam had come running round to her and how worried he was and how much they both loved and needed me and how I couldn't die. I had to stay here for them. I stayed silent through the whole thing, falling asleep again shortly after the phone call.

Liam (Will) turned up at my door the next day. I was shocked as hell and still felt incredibly ill, tired and emotionally drained but he hugged me and we both stood there and cried for about 10 minutes until Louis came over and ushered us both back inside. The three of us sat down in the living room (Niall, Zayn and Liam having gone home earlier) with tea and Liam asked me how I was feeling and why I did it and all those usual questioned. I answered honestly. I told him I didn't know how I was feeling. Didn't know anything and he sighed and nodded because we'd been through this before. I just stopped feeling anything. I was empty. I remember Louis bringing up medication just like Liam had when I was 14 years old and I gave him the exact same answer. I didn't agree with it. I didn't want it. I didn't want to have to take some shitty pill every day if it was only going to give me this fake happiness. I didn't _want_ fake happiness. They had both nodded and accepted my views, seeing where I was coming from. We talked and talked and I eventually agreed to go to my doctor (with Louis) and ask to see someone. A counsellor.

I went two weeks later and got referred to a clinic. A week later I got a phone call from a lady named Jessica, who I've been having weekly sessions with for about 4 and a half months now.

Things are looking up. I don't want to die anymore. I still cut but it's about once a month which is the best I've ever done. I've been cutting for almost 10 years. It's going to be hard and, hey, I might never stop but at least it's not _bad_ anymore. The cuts were never deep. They were more scratches than they were cuts but yeah... That's not the point. A cut is a cut and if it's self-inflicted then it's an issue, that's what Louis told me. I've learnt to deal with everything my father did to me in other ways now. I talk to Louis about it a lot. I draw or watch a film or some TV or listen to music or do anything really as long as it's a distraction. I basically just distract myself from thinking about it. It works for the most part.

I like my life now. There's parts of it I don't and never will but there is also parts of it that I would never change and overall those parts outweigh the bad. My boyfriend is definitely one of those good parts. He's incredibly and I've never met someone so supportive. Music is another. We're doing alright, my band. And by alright I mean remarkably. I'm famous. It's weird saying that because at times I still just feel like that trapped 11 year old boy being abused by my father everyday but hey. I think the most important thing that I've learnt is that life goes on. That shit happens and no matter what I didn't have or what I went through in my past, life still moves on. I can be happy. There's nothing wrong with that. I can be happy and free and openly gay with my boyfriend without management, my fears and my past holding me back. I can be me. And I am me.

Call me a bad person but I honestly hope he's dead - my biological father. I haven't heard from him for almost 5 years and I never want to again. He ruined my childhood, yeah. But I won't let him ruin anything else. I won't let him ruin my life, my job, my fans, my relationship, nothing. He's coming nowhere near anything I love ever again. And that includes me because yeah there are days where I hate myself and all I want to do is lay in my bed and cut because the memories won't stop flooding back to me but the majority of the time, I'm okay. I'm happy and I try my hardest to love myself.

So yeah.. This is my life. It's my story. That one that no one else has told. Because it's unique. I'm unique. And the rest of the world can take me or leave me because I have what I need right here. I have my boyfriend. I have my best friends. I have my parents; my mum and my dad. Because Robin is my dad. Maybe not by blood, but he's the only dad I've ever had. And you know what?

It's November 2012, I'm 18 years old and for the first time in my life, I have happiness.


End file.
